David Bowie – Low


You stuffing letterbox with spit wet chunks of newspapers and glossy celebrity magazines. It’s closest come to outside in weeks and every muscle itches to get back to nest. Fingers slick and shaking, you gum steel mouth of door and away, afeared of stiff cool breeze from beneath frame.

You stumbling back up carpeted staircase, slipping on the crust shelled slicks of man muck. You paused outside the nest to rub the foul stuff from bare feet, ‘this one place must be clean’, and snork head first into warm belly of the heaving gee. Fetal, worm deep in nest to check you larv, all hot and wriggling in her pack of tight wrapped towel. With mouth chew you some colgate from a wrinked half dead tube, and pass it to it through you feed hole. Larvae moans and rolls about a bit and gather naked close to feel its warmth.

It’s one free eye is wide with love and wonder and you reach forward, plant peppermint tongue on slick cornea. Crytalis moans ‘gain, soon perhaps the hatch time, spring of all things clean and end to filthy cold and dark. A warm wet spaz, as begin to love cuddle the wriggling thing, the moaning lump that used to be you mum. Soon.


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